


Ah - In My Dreams

by Palebluedot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Character Study, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but if any violence at all is gonna be not good for you this is probably not your fic, i'm not gonna tag this as graphic depictions of violence because I don't think it's quite that level
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, he can bite his fist hard enough to stop the screaming. Today, he didn't, and Steve – stupid, brave, <i>stupid</i> – ran in to see what was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ah - In My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blanketed_in_stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/gifts).



> Title taken from the song Tian Mi Mi because I got a little obsessed and it ended up giving me the idea for this.

It's one of his bad days. Or at least, that's what he knows Steve calls days like today when he gently turns Sam away at the front door – to Bucky, they're all sort of bad days, in one way or another. On days when he looks up when he hears his old name and cracks jokes that make Steve smile with that unbearable, blinding, watery sort of gratitude in his eyes, half of him – maybe less than half now, maybe still more – claws at his ribs and begs him to please, please just pick up that butcher's knife and carve those eyes out, and on days when he punches through walls and spits threats in Russian and lets himself run _wild_ , the other part of him, the one that still knows how to cry, has to watch Steve's heart break, and knows it's his fault.

The day started with a nightmare, the kind where he woke up drenched in sweat and piss because his hands were dripping blood but it wasn't enough, because he knew, he _knew_ they were going to wipe him again. Sometimes, he can bite his fist hard enough to stop the screaming. Today, he didn't, and Steve – stupid, brave, _stupid_ – ran in to see what was wrong. Bucky didn't recognize him in the dark – or maybe he did – so he grabbed the kitchen knife he'd hidden underneath his pillow and swung at Steve's chest before he even had the chance to turn on the light. Steve had to pin his wrists down to the bed but he couldn't get his legs, too, so Bucky kicked him anyplace he could reach, shouting and swearing and honest-to-God _growling_ at him as he thrashed underneath him.

His screams melted into dry sobs after he kneed Steve in the ribs and heard a crack, felt the bone break against his skin. _Not again, not again, not again_ , he babbled even as he kept fighting, muscles contracting and swinging on instinct, and Steve cried out above him, and with a twist of guilt, Bucky realized it wasn't because of the pain in his ribs.

Finally, Bucky let his hand go limp enough to drop the knife. It clattered to the floor, probably scratching the wood Steve made sure to sweep every week, and all Bucky could do was shake and _shake_ and half-choke on spit and try and fail not to cry. Steve let go of his wrists, and Bucky threw his arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder, an apology, a plea for Steve to stop trying to save him and save himself instead, and Steve didn't hesitate for one moment before wrapping him in a hug, carding his fingers through his too-long hair and rubbing his back. It was four in the morning, they were both breathing hard and bleeding a little, and Bucky tried to avoid putting pressure on the rib he'd broken, but Steve just pulled him in, tight, and Bucky hated himself for letting him.

It's almost four AM again, and he hasn't slept. He doesn't want to stay in his bed, even though Steve washed the sheets. Especially because Steve washed the sheets. Bucky hurt him, bad, and Steve made his bed for him anyway. Cleaned up the piss and the blood and replaced it with the sharp, sweet smell of detergent and fabric softener. _He always did like things neat_ , he thinks in a voice that used to be his, and feels like he's falling all over again.

He opens the door to Steve's room, pads over in bare feet to the chair by his bed, and tries not to think about how he never could have been so quiet about it before everything changed.

Steve shifts in his sleep, and Bucky tears his eyes away, fixes them on the floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite wall. It's a weak point in the room, one he wishes Steve would board up. He doesn't care that this is the 26th floor of Stark Tower, there is always a way to get to a target in their home, and that window is the way Bucky would've done it. Steve's dead to the world, there's no one else in the apartment, so Bucky's the only one who can stand guard. _Watch his six_ , he thinks, and even though memories drilling through the ice always make him jump, twist his guts inside-out, he thinks he's glad of this one.

It's quiet. He can hear Steve breathing. His pulse beats in his ears and presses on his thoughts until he can feel his head _ache_ with them, so he opens his mouth and lets them escape, drip down his chin and fog up the darkness.

“I know we had a life together, once,” he says in a low, hoarse voice, eyes still fixed on the window. He can see a faint reflection of himself through a gap in the drapes. Bent over, hands clasped. Like he's praying. He thinks he did that, once, when the world looked bigger. “I don't remember what we did.”

He pauses. That's not quite the truth, maybe. He gets...flashes, sometimes. Lying next to Steve when he's sick and burning up underneath the blankets, but not daring to move because Steve needs his body heat to break his fever, butterflies bursting in his stomach after slinging an arm around his shoulder, surging forward to kiss him in the dark, tasting cheap, end-of-the-month whiskey searing on his lips and wincing in pleasure when bony fingers twist in his hair. Dancing in their drafty living room with curtains shut tight to a slow sort of love song soaking through the walls from the neighbor's radio.

They feel real. He wants so badly for them to be real, but he doesn't dare hope too loud, because he also sees flashes of things he's never done, things the part of him that's twisted and ancient and bleeds ice water wants to be real, too – snapping Steve's scrawny neck with one hand, emptying a clip between his eyes and reloading, watching him drown in the Potomac and dragging his limp, skinny body ashore as a message to his keepers – _mission accomplished_. He doesn't know which set of memories-not-memories makes him keep shooting glances at Steve's chest, making sure he sees that rise and fall, rise and fall – _like he's got pneumonia again_ , he thinks, and feels dizzy. Too loud, his head's too loud, he doesn't want to wake Steve but God, the pressure behind his eyes is threatening to shatter his skull, so he has to open his mouth and let it drain out as speech.

“I hear when you and the others talk about me, you know.” He's used to being talked about, mission details and dosages of sedatives debated over him in casual tones as straps tighten around his wrists, his ankles. This feels different, though, and he doesn't mind. Then again, he never minded it before. He didn't know how. “You think you're being quiet, but I think you're forgetting you're not the only one in this apartment who's got enhanced hearing.” A smile, then, almost. It's familiar, when it has no right to be. “I'm not mad or anything, but Rogers, you say some stupid shit.”

“I heard you telling Sam you blamed yourself. For not knowing I was alive down there, in the snow. You said you abandoned me.” Bucky turns away from the window, just for a moment, and looks at Steve. His eyes are closed, but he's facing him, and it's almost enough to make him run, but he stays because he has to tell him, even if he doesn't hear. “You didn't. You never left me alone anywhere, Steve.”

“I dreamed, sometimes, when they put me under. Bits and pieces from...before. I think they tried to stop it, because it didn't happen so much near the end, but even when they...wiped me, I think – I _know_ I saw your face in the ice. Your...smile.” He shakes his head. Even now, he knows that's awful sappy, and thanks whoever's supposed to be listening that Steve's always been a heavy sleeper, and he forgets to be nauseous until a moment after the memory settles. “So I knew you. On the bridge. Because I saw you in my dreams.”

He drifts back to the dream he had two nights ago – the one with music and colored lights everywhere, the smell of popcorn, a car that almost flew. “I still see you in my dreams.”

“So, you never left me, see? You don't have to feel bad.” He swallows hard around a lump in his throat. “Please don't feel bad,” he whispers.

“Sometimes I wish you would. Leave,” His eyes burn and swim, and he has to blink it away. “It's hard, Steve, so hard to try to come back. I've been gone for so long, it'd be easier to stay away.” What Steve calls his “bad days” – those are the easiest of all. He's had days like that for over 70 years. He's only had “good ones” for closer to 20. _Old habits die hard,_ he thinks, and resists the urge to brush a stray lock of hair off Steve's forehead.

He shakes his head. “But you won't leave me. I know you won't. No matter how bad I get.” The white bandages around Steve's ribs peeking out from under the quilt blind him in the dark, and he feels sick.

“So, I'm gonna get better. I will. I promise,” he says, and he doesn't know if he used to be a man who kept his promises, but he wants to keep this one more than anything in the world.

The sky outside is a dense mess of gray clouds, but it's growing lighter, so Steve's due to wake up in a few minutes, go for the morning run he always invites Bucky on, even though he never agrees. Drawing in a shaky rattle of breath, Bucky stands up, takes a step towards the door.

The floorboard creaks, and it takes all Bucky has not to bolt or grab for a weapon. Frozen in place, he doesn't see Steve sit up, but the rustle of the sheets tells him all he needs to know, and he wishes he could run without the guilt he knows he can no longer outpace.

“Buck?” Steve croaks, sleep clogging up his voice. “You okay?”

 _Yes_ would be a lie, _no_ would make Steve worry, and _I don't know_ would invite conversation. Bucky doesn't want any of that. He just wants to turn everything off, wants to crawl inside a dark place and cease to exist until he's needed again. He turns around with slow, shuffling steps to face Steve, forces himself to _look_ at him, all bleary, trusting eyes and rustled hair, the naked, honest affliction of affection painted over his face, so vulnerable, so within striking distance.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he chokes out before he knows what he's said, before he's remembered the day's all but dawned.

Steve nods immediately, doesn't even pause to think, and Bucky can't _bear_ to acknowledge the familiarity of the spark of happiness in his eyes when he throws back a corner of the quilt, shifts himself over to one side of the bed. Bucky walks over and manages to climb in without looking at him, but he feels the heat from where he'd been lying on the sheets when he crawls into bed, and that's just as bad. There's a _click_ behind him where Steve switches off his morning alarm, and Bucky's glad – he really shouldn't be running on those ribs, anyway. Steve's breathing evens out long before Bucky manages to unclench his fist, and when he does close his eyes, the last thing he sees is his haggard reflection in the crack between the curtains, Steve's sleeping form behind him.

That night, Bucky doesn't remember any of his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for the ship, yay!


End file.
